Tuus Hostis Occulti
by EmRosie
Summary: Draco and Harry have been together for almost four years. They've had their ups and downs, but everything changes when one of the many threats to their safety comes horrifyingly true… But with each letter signed Tuus Hostis Occulti – your hidden enemy – is the threat everything it seems? Harry/Draco. Rated M: strong language, slash, kidnap and torture. Please enjoy & review! :)
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Tuus Hostis Occulti

 **Pairings:** Harry/Draco as main pairing – written from both of their POV's interchanging throughout. Other pairs - mentioned Ron/Hermione, and more generally cannon couples.

 **Blurb:** Draco and Harry have been dating for almost four years. They've had their ups and downs, but everything changes when one of the many threats to their safety comes horrifyingly true… But with each letter signed _Tuus Hostis Occulti_ – your hidden enemy – is the threat everything it seems?

 **Rating/Warnings:** M for all the reasons fanfiction suggests – strong language and sexual content and implied/discussed Mpreg. Also some pretty dark themes – kidnap, torture, some potential (hinted, very abstract) thoughts of suicide. This story will feature lots of flashbacks, written in italics, to provide a background to Harry and Draco's relationship. The story will also switch P.O.V's frequently, showing the story from both Harry and Draco's perspectives.

 **Author's note:** After focusing on "emerging" relationship stories where Draco and Harry get together I wanted to try something a little different. I have the story entirely mapped out, but not yet written, so I wouldn't like to estimate a length! Enjoy and, please, review!

* * *

 **Tuus Hostis Occulti**

 **Chapter One**

Draco Malfoy awoke very slowly. He blinked out of habit, as he always did when he awoke to adjust himself to the early morning light. However he soon became all too aware that there was no light for him to adjust to. He was dazed and there was a dull, slightly throbbing pain at his temples, as if he had just awoken from a sleep so deep, so long that it had given him a headache rather than relieved it.

 _Or he had awoken from a magically induced slumber._

He blinked again, although it gave him no advantage, and looked around the room he was in. He might not have much hope of sight, but his other senses were still perfectly intact. It was cold, that much he could feel, and as he realised it a shiver ran deep down his bones. He reached out to the wall he was slumped against and felt a cool, hard stone beneath his fingertips. The stone was slightly damp and – yes, when he took a deep breath in, the wet, stale smell of damp assaulted his nostrils. He listened intently yet nothing but silence and the sound of his own breathing stretched before him. No doubt the silence was magically induced by his captors.

Yes, _captors_.

For now that his dazed, sleep addled mind had been given chance to awake as his body had, memories of that morning came flooding back to him. It had been around six thirty when he arrived at his potions store a little way outside of Diagon Alley - Lepping Lane, to be precise – ready to try his hand in his laboratory before the store opened for business that morning. Early, he knew, but necessary. But that had been when the world turned upside down; he forced his mind to remember although he remembered nothing more than a black hood sweeping over his eyes as he apparated on the front step of his business, taking away the light that he had, until right now, taken for granted.

He pulled himself into a sitting position and allowed his head to roll back against the damp, cold stone wall behind him. He drew his legs up against his body, wrapping his arms around his knees and stared into the darkness. Action, he told himself, would keep his mind occupied. He may not be able to see his captors in the dark, dank dungeon they had him imprisoned in, but who knew what kind of surveillance spells they had watching him. He did not want to appear weak in the face of an enemy.

So far his available senses – smell, touch, and hearing – had told him he must be in a dungeon cell. No other place he had ever inhabited had been as cold, as imposing, as hope defying, as a dungeon. As he thought that, the reason why he knew just what a dungeon was like came back to him and he shuddered involuntary; being a prisoner in his own home, in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, caged by his crazy Aunt Bellatrix for failing one of the Dark Lord's orders was not a memory that it would be healthy for him to revisit right now.

Action, he reminded himself, and pulled himself to his feet. He may not be able to see the dungeon, but he could pace it, and get an idea of the size of the room he was contained in. As he stood his head grazed the ceiling, meaning he had to bend just a little at the knees to be able to stand. It took him around a stride and a half to cross lengthwise – although he could easily cross it with just one step he had taken to making his strides smaller to give himself the illusion of more space – and as for the width he could touch each opposing wall with each of his palms.

Cosy, he thought to himself, the sneer which coated his lips set as an outward display of defiance to whoever may be watching, masking the fear inside.

Because, of course, Malfoy's don't get scared, Draco reminded himself.

Forgetting himself for a moment he attempted to straighten up to relieve the cramp in his bended knees and banged his head against the stone above. Bringing a hand up to rub the lump he must have created and, closing his eyes with the sharp sting of pain that overcame him, he sank back down to his resting position against the wall. His thoughts wandered for a moment and time Draco thought of what Harry would say if he could see him now. He'd smirk, of course, then making some cutting comment about Draco's pride in his height no longer serving him well (he was, naturally, a good half a foot taller than Harry, a fact he frequently exploited).

Then his heart ached.

Of course Harry wouldn't say that. Not in this situation. Harry would most likely be angry with him for ignoring his repeated warnings about his safety. Draco often found it ironic that it was his strength and independence that Harry had admitted attracted him to him in the first place; however, when the attraction grew to love, so did Harry's feelings of protection.

If Harry could see him now…

He allowed his feelings; guilt and grief, loneliness and fear, to wash over him for a few seconds. Then Draco set his face in a determined, grim line and pushed all thoughts of Harry away. He refused to give his captors the enjoyment of seeing his emotions.

Because, of course, Malfoy's don't do emotions of any kind, Draco reminded himself.

* * *

Harry sat and stared into the third cup of tea he'd been provided with by Hermione. He wrapped his hands around the china, trying to hide the way his arms shook with frustration. What was he doing here? Why was he wasting time? Every inch of his body longed to be out, tracking down Draco and the bastards who had taken him before testing out several _interesting_ spells he had taught himself from Dark Arts books Draco had brought with him from the Manor to the small house they know shared that, at the time, Harry told himself he was learning purely for emergencies.

Well, if Draco getting kidnapped didn't constitute as an emergency, Harry didn't know what did.

Rage erupted within him as he thought of kidnapping crossed his mind and, in an unbidden burst of raw, wandless magic, the mug he held cracked into a thousand splintering pieces of china which flew through the air of Ron and Hermione's kitchen. Hot liquid spilled from the cup, instantly scalding his palms.

"Fuck!" He swore as the tea burnt into his skin.

Hermione, thankfully, was ready. With the first flick of her wand she cleared the table of both split tea and broken china and with the second she conjured a healing salve to coat Harry's hands.

"My mum always used to say tea makes things better. I guess that isn't the case with you." Hermione tried lightly as she applied the salve to the now flaming red patches of skin on Harry's hands. Harry bit his tongue to hold in a hiss of pain as the cool salve coated his burning skin as his cheeks began to burn for a different reason.

"Sorry.." He muttered shame faced, thinking of the first cup (which went the same way as the third) and the second cup (thankfully and skilfully vanished by Hermione as she spotted a flicker of anger in Harry's eyes) of tea he had been provided with and failed to drink.

He allowed the salve to do its work, already feeling the skin begin to blister over on its way to extremely quickened healing. He'd already seen the benefit of the salve Hermione conjured following his first accident but, given the circumstances, wasn't in the mood to appear impressed.

"It might not work as well this time, given it's only just healed the first burns.." Hermione explained her voice quiet and words spoken as if very carefully chosen as she saw Harry looking down at his hands. "I'm sure Ron won't be long."

"Yeah.." Was all Harry could say, finding the sight of his now painfully blistering hands much preferable to the look of pity Hermione was no doubt offering him.

The friends sat in silence after that and Hermione made no move to replace the tea for a fourth time. Harry stared at the clock on the kitchen wall which ticked with each passing second as if taunting Harry for every second he was wasting.

 _Tick._

 _Tock._

 _Tick._

 _Tock._

 _Ti-_

Just as Harry was about to leave, to return home and seek hot-headed, desperate revenge when the fireplace whooshed into life and green flickering flames spat his best friend out into the kitchen.

"Rose? Is she OK? What's wrong?" Ron burst out the second he was stepped out of the grate and into the kitchen. His face, already lined with worry, paled all the more when he saw Harry sitting at his kitchen table. "Harry? I thought you were ill? Is she that bad?" Ron's face was as white as chalk now and Hermione rose from her seat, putting her hand on her husband's arm and shaking her head.

"Rose is fine; it's not her, its Harry. We just needed some way to get you out of the office without looking suspicious." She soothed, her hand gently rubbing Ron's forearm in a calming gesture. Ron deflated the look of relief in his eyes obvious for just a moment before they sharped once again and his gaze darted to Harry.

"You're not ill. Robard's said you were ill." He commented. It wasn't an accusation of lying to or misleading him, it wasn't filled with anger or pain. It was a sharp, directed comment, designed to – without question – give Harry the invitation to spill out his problems.

"That will be what Robard's believes, yes." Harry spoke for the first time, pulling a piece of parchment out of his robe pocket and handing it to Ron. The parchment was already starting to wear at the edges – Harry had read it himself several times before he had apparated to Hermione's side and she herself had read it just as many times since he had arrived.

Not that it mattered, anyway. Ron and Hermione were the only ones he trusted with this and, once Ron had seen the words scribbled on the page, Harry knew he wouldn't need the letter again. The words, by now, were already imprinted on his mind forever.

 _Potter,_

 _We have succeeded where others before us have failed._

 _We have him._

 _Your employers are, as you read this, receiving an owl that declares you as contagiously sick and in need of at least two weeks leave. You will not, under any circumstances, tell them or anyone of this letter if you wish to see him again._

 _You will, in due course, receive instruction._

 _We are always watching, Potter, and we have no problem in breaking a bone or two if we see you have disobeyed us._

 _Remember, Potter._

 _We have him._

 _Tuus Hostis Occulti_

The signature of the letter had been the focus of his and Hermione's work that afternoon. Hermione had quickly worked out the Latin origins of the word and, after burying her head in a worn, leather bound book " _Latin pro tironibus_ ", she had informed him in nothing more than a whisper that the letter was signed "your hidden enemy". The memory of the signature ran a shiver down Harry's spine, of rage and fear and emotions he couldn't place. He had already checked it with a tracking charm – the parchment had been heavily warded against and gave Harry nothing. He had undertaken a handwriting charm – again, the parchment showed nothing, the writer had gone to great lengths to conceal his or her identity. Hermione herself had repeated the charms, as well as various others, and found nothing.

Their enemy, it appeared, was as they claimed – hidden.

The opening words swam in Harry's mind " _We have succeeded where others before us have failed. We have him."_ Those had been the words that had stopped Harry's heart. He had received, in the years after the war, countless threats. They had all been similar; strongly warded, warning him not to use his powers as an Auror to hunt them, filled with vicious words. They had all threatened against the place they could hurt most of all – his heart – and this time, someone had succeeded.

Someone – that, for Harry, was the most vital part. " _We have succeeded where others before us have failed."_ His brain repeated. Every day that he closed a case at work, every time a former Death Eater was caught and sent to Azkaban, every time that a new, aspiring 'Dark Lord' attempted to rise and was squashed, Harry wondered if those were the ones sending the threats, if his life would be peaceful.

If any of the prisoners behind bars had been behind the threats before, another had taken their place.

Ron was ashen faced as he lifted his gaze from the parchment and sought out Harry's eyes. Harry stared back, into the pale blue eyes which blazed with a mixture of emotions; concern for his best friend, anger over what had happened and an obvious, burning desire to do _something_.

"Fuck." He said.

"Ronald!" Hermione scolded.

"Fuck." Harry repeated.

Hermione, wisely, said nothing.

* * *

Draco stared up at the ceiling of his cell; rather, he stared blankly up into the darkness where, just above him, he knew was a hard, cold stone ceiling. He forced his eyes to bore into the emptiness, whilst forbidding the feeling of dark isolation to overtake him. He would, to his captors, feel defiant.

Draco wasn't sure why he kept referring to captors in the plural but he reasoned that whoever it was would be unlikely to be operating alone. Harry, naturally, had many enemies. A side effect of being the Chosen One or the Almighty Saviour or whatever nickname fit in most coherently with whatever drivel it was that the Daily Prophet were trying to sell that day.

A fond memory at odds with his dismal surroundings enters Draco's mind and, willingly, he allows it to take over. He smiles as he remembers, allowing the reminiscence to take him far, far away.

" _Our Almighty Saviour once again proves himself as the deserving of his place in our hearts. At last night's charity gala for war heroes – of which, Mr Potter is of course the greatest – he proclaimed he would double last year's record breaking donation; that record, of course, being held by the Saviour himself. This reporter is honestly amazed by the continued dedication and honour the Chosen One brings to our wizard-"_

" _Stop Draco!" Harry protested, swinging a pillow from beneath his head and promptly using it to beat his lover around the head. Draco laughed, the high, taunting pitch he used to read the Daily Prophet's latest article aloud to Harry in bed broken. Draco's laughed only seemed to infuriate Harry further and he brought a second pillow to join the first, fisting one in each hand as he smacked his target repeatedly._

" _Dear Merlin, what would the Prophet say?" Draco mock-squealed, his laughter stifled enough to affect an overly outraged tone. "I can just see the headlines now – Chosen One, He-Who-Must-Be-Worshiped, sentenced to life in Azkaban for beating lover to death with a pillow." Draco's teasing is punctuated by peals of laughter as he reaches the end of his taunt, amused by his own attempts at being insulting. Harry can't help but laugh with him and, for a moment, the pillows still in his hands._

" _Me? Azkaban? Never." Now it's Harrys turn to adopt a tone of mock scandalisation, rising onto his knees on the bed as he drops one pillow, placing a splayed palm over his chest as if shocked Draco were referring to him. "I would simply explain that my boyfriend refused to worship me for the Saviour that I am. They would, of course, completely understand."_

 _Draco laughs along with him; he loves it when Harry is in a mood like this, where he can find light of the celebrity that plagues him. He knows now that Harry doesn't crave the fame as Draco once thought he did but, in fact, despises it. Draco feels happy that he can be the one to make Harry forget the discomfort his frequenting of the Daily Prophet's front page brings._

" _I refuse to worship you?" He asked, lowering his voice into a deliberately seductive tone. "Now, now, we can't have that, can we?" He almost purrs as he speaks, edging toward Harry slowly. Harry remains on his knees in the centre of their bed as if frozen – although Draco knows he isn't, he can see the flicker of arousal pass through his lovers eyes. "In fact we should fix that, right away."_

 _Those are the last words he speaks before he raises his palms, pushing Harry back against the pillows. His touch is only light but his boyfriend falls willingly, dropping back against the plush bedcovers Draco insisted they buy when he first moved in. But Draco has no time to think of bed covers now._

 _Now he has something much more satisfying to focus his attention on._

 _He drags his fingers down Harry's chest, scraping his nails against the defined muscles that lay taught under his skin, feeling the slight tickle of Harry's chest hair tease his fingers before the continue, down, down, down to the waistband of his partners boxers. At this point he looks up, finding a pair of sparkling emerald eyes, heated with arousal, staring down into his._

" _Tell me, Potter, what worship do you require?"_

Draco pulled himself from the memory, the thought of Harry and their bed keeping him warm in the cold of his cell.


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry this has taken me a while to update - getting back into work after Christmas has kept me so busy I haven't had time to write! All is back on track now and this story will be update every Sunday. :)

Thanks to Hancock23 for the lovely review on the first chapter - enjoy this next one!

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

"You've checked the parchment?" Ron asked as he sunk into the chair next to Hermione, opposite Harry.

"Of course." Harry snapped; his voice sounded short, harsh, even to his own ears. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. It wasn't Ron's fault, but his anger needed an outlet. "We both have," he added, consciously attempting to calm his tone. "Nothing, warded against tracking charms, they used a charm to cover their handwriting…"

"And…" Ron screwed up his face, pure concentration over taking his features to the point it looked almost painful as he re-read the signature on the letter. "Tu- Toos - Tuus hostis occulti." He read aloud after struggling over the intial Latin, his features returning to their usual slack appearance. Draco had often made that a target of his teasing but Harry knew to look deeper; Ron may appear blank faced but a single look into the depths of his pale blue eyes told anyone its owner was as sharp as anyone. "Well, I know hostis is enemy." He deciphered, frowning slightly in thought as he read the signature once again "tuus… That's your, it's in quite a lot of the old pure family mottos…" He murmured, clearly pulling on all the remements of his wizarding education. Harry looked over to see the way Hermione's eyes sparkled in appreciation; she had, of course, already deciphered the answer but Harry knew it pleased her to see Ron using his mind.

Today, Harry didn't have time to allow her the luxury.

"Hermione looked it up, 'tuss hostis occulti'" Harry repeated as Ron looked toward him, almost spitting out the Latin in disgust. "Your hidden enemy."

Ron gave a shudder at the translation before giving one, long nod. "So I think we can assume we're working with an old wizarding family here, pure blood, if they're so confident in Latin, it's only really taught in uptight pure families these days.."

"Not necessarily." Hermione interjected, clearly no longer willing to wait for Ron to use his own mind as she had been before. "Anyone can teach themselves Latin. I managed to translate it quite easily; with the help of books, of course." Harry didn't miss the way Ron rolled his eyes mockingly at his wife's mention of books, yet with a warm and loving smile on his face. It was an easy, constant form of communication between his best friends that always warmed his heart in the worst of times. "So, the writer of these letters could just as easily be a half blood or even muggle born, just someone with enough knowledge of the wizarding world to know that by using Latin to sign their letters that they would be sending us looking in the wrong direction." Hermione's words drew Harry back from the warmth, however brief, that Ron and Hermione's interaction had given him. The strand of hope in narrowing down potential captors had been so violently cut short by Hermione's speech it caused a jolt through his stomach. He knew, however, that she was right and he was glad to have her logic in their approach.

"Yet… your 'hidden' enemy… That could suggest that their hiding themselves through the use of Latin to hide themselves under the pretence of being pure blooded… Or, quite equally, it could be a pure blood who knows we would make such an assumption and is using Latin to hide in plain sight." As Hermione finished, she shrank down slightly in her chair, looking lost in a way that Harry had only seen when she had been unable to master a particular spell in a beloved Hogwarts textbook. "So, really, we have no idea." She admitted quietly, leaving the room in an almost deathly silence. _No closer_ , a voice in Harry's mind taunted him, making him scowl at nothing in particular.

"Right, I know you already will have, but tell me everything." Ron urged, breaking the silence as he put the letter on the table and splayed his hands out on the oak surface. It was often how he braced himself at work when they were receiving the first details of a case, he had told Harry that the feel of something solid beneath his hands helped him anchor his thoughts, keep him trained on every word being said.

Harry forced himself to quell his frustrations; _yes_ , he had already explained everything. He had told Hermione the entire tale as soon as he had stepped from her Floo that morning and now he would have to tell it again. Yet the words were pointless, achieving nothing but stretching out the time between now and the time when he would have Draco in his arms again.

Because he would, there was no question about it.

He swallowed his irritation, reminding himself that these were his friends and, in any case, he had come to them for help. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to find a calm voice in which to retell the story. For that's what it had become to Harry now; nothing more than a story, as if he were speaking about another person, narrating someone else's life, not reciting the horror of his own.

"My tempus woke me up at half past seven this morning. Draco was already gone, but I wasn't worried. He's been going in early recently; he thinks he's having a breakthrough with a new potion in his lab…" Harry trailed off, fighting back the lump of sadness building in the back of his throat. The potion Draco had been so eagerly working on and had – from what he had told Harry each night when he arrived home – come tantalisingly close to completing, was a potion to allow the encourage the process of pregnancy in male wizards. When Hermione had announced her pregnancy almost a year ago Harry had been unable to hide his disappointment. Of course he had been thrilled for his friends and was honoured to become a godfather again but it wasn't what he truly wanted, what he had always wanted; a family of his own. Draco, being the man Draco was, had instantly began to consult textbooks and theory on wizard pregnancies, determined to give Harry everything he wanted. Harry knew Draco would surely murder him in the blink of an eye if he told anyone just how much he was determined to spoil Harry and he smiled at the thought, just for a moment, before he came back to reality with a bump.

He would happily face death again if it meant Draco would be safe again.

Aware he must have been silent for some time; he took a breath and pressed on. He remembered the moments so clearly it was if he were standing in a pensive of his own memory. "So I went in the shower, the usual. I'd just got dressed for work when I went into the kitchen and the letter was waiting on the table. No owl, no nothing. Just the parchment." Harry thought back to the moment he had taken the letter in hand, the way his hands had trembled as he read the words he would never forget. "Then I read it. Then I read it again, and again… Then I came here."

Ron nodded silently as Harry came to the end of his tale, knowing himself it offered nothing concrete for them to plan from. If it did he would already be out there, chasing any and every lead he had.

"I suppose there's not much we can do but wait." Hermione began in a timid voice. She must have been expecting for the furious gaze Harry shot her when she spoke as her face was set defiantly. "Of course we won't _just_ wait, Harry. But the letter said they would be in touch. You know these people always want _something_ from you… When they write again, we'll be ready for the meeting. We can spend some time looking up tracking spells and such, maybe some spells that are… _Outside your usual professional toolkit_. I'm sure there's something in those books of Draco's." Harry noticed the way Hermione's cheeks pinked as she referred to dark magic so casually and, if it had been any other situation, any other time, he would have found her comment amusing. Instead, he nodded numbly in agreement. "Ron will return to work, of course. The quicker the better so as to not make anyone suspicious. Go back and tell them all it was some simple magical ailment Rose was showing symptoms of and that I was overacting. Keep an ear out for anything that might give us a lead."

Ron nodded, clearly relieved to have a mission in hand. He stood from the table, using the position his hands still occupied on the table to push him to his feet. He swooped to give Hermione a chaste kiss on the cheek; Harry had to look away as he did so, feeling his heart burn for Draco at the simple, loving gesture.

"We'll find him, mate. If we can find bloody horcruxes, we can find Malfoy." Ron clapped his hand on Harry's shoulder and squeezed as he spoke, his words soft yet firm and – to anyone else – reassuring. Harry nodded but didn't look up, unwilling to show the way his eyes had dampened as he had seen his best friend's tender moment. He kept his gaze trained on the table as Ron lifted his hand and walked away, the room silent until the whoosh of flames in the Floo flared to life and carried Ron away.

* * *

Draco was aware that he was beginning to lose track of the minutes, hours that dragged by – not days, not yet, Merlin thank him he'd retained that much. Unless – a wild flash of panic hit him, just for a moment – he'd become convinced he'd awoken earlier from a magically induced slumber. Just how long had he been asleep before he had awoken? Had it been days? How long had Harry been without him? Or had it been, as Draco first suspected, still mere hours since his kidnap? Did Harry even know, or was he at work, risking his life with the Aurors, blissfully unaware of Draco's situation?

No, Draco thought, shaking his head if only to himself. He'd listened to Harry press him about the threats he faced if he stayed with him – Merlin, he'd received and read a fair share of threats himself – to know that his captors, whoever they were, must have contacted Harry by now.

He allowed himself a smile; Harry would be on his way.

* * *

After a quick Floo home to retrieve Draco's dark arts books Harry and Hermione had spent their day with their heads in the dusty volumes. Harry had made several marks against a few particularly blood curdling spells, promising himself that he would attempt to master them when he was at home away from Hermione's judging eyes. She may not be beyond sampling the dark arts to find Draco but she would be against any form of torture.

Harry had once thought that he would be, too. Perhaps Hermione would think differently if it were her husband missing.

As Harry thinks of this, he absently twirls the silver band, adorned with glittering emeralds, on his ring finger. He remembers when he had first seen the ring Draco had chosen for him – the very moment they exchanged rings at their bonding ceremony, only a few months ago.

 _Harry and Draco stand at the edge of the lake just on the edge of Andromeda Tonks's land. The warm June sun reflects on the water, basking them in its golden light. Their guests sit on lines of silver chairs which face them. Harry only has eyes for his fiancée – very soon to be husband – and their existence is nothing more than a glimmer on the edge of his reality. He stares into Draco's eyes, warmed to see a joy and love radiating in them that, until this moment, he believed Draco would only display in private. Merlin, a few years ago, he never would have dared to dream of such a look at all._

" _Welcome. Friends, family and loved ones. We are gathered here today, to celebrate the union of Harry James Potter and Draco Malfoy…"_

 _As Draco's middle name is omitted, Harry pauses to think of those gathered for them. Draco had requested the priest leave 'Lucius' from his name. He had, ever since Narcissa's death, publicly denounced his father. He had fled to Europe as soon as the trials were over, leaving Narcissa and Draco to deal with the reparations, the consequences – financial and social – of their actions. Harry knew Draco blamed his father – not by wand, of course, but as good as – for his mother's death. The hatred he had harboured in his heart since that day had burnt any bridges between them._

 _Harry's gaze first found Andromeda, sitting on the front row, beaming at the pair of them. Teddy looked somewhat disinterested – he was seven and, sitting in formal robes for any period of time was naturally considered deathly boring – but happy. When he saw Harry looking, he threw him a bright, eager a smile and, for a fleeting moment, his hair shot as jet black as Harry's. Harry's heart warmed at their presence; more for Draco than for himself. He knew his aunts forgiveness, her acceptance into her life and Teddy's, the one link Draco had to remaining blood relatives – or, at least, the one link he still allowed himself to acknowledge – meant the world to Draco. His gaze then moved on to the other figures crowding the front row. The Weasley's, of course, dominated. Molly and Arthur – Molly already dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief – beside Ron and Hermione, Bill, Fleur and Victorie, Percy and even Charlie, all the way from Romania. Beside Charlie were – Harry's breath caught and his throat seemed to close in a strangled sort of way – Ginny and Dean. Ginny no longer harboured any feelings for Ginny – he hadn't for years, since he fell completely and hopelessly for Draco – but seeing her was always… Their eyes caught and, with a hand on her rounding belly, she offered him a warm, friendly smile. Harry returned it wholeheartedly, glad for the way his family – even though his relationship with Ginny was long over, he still thought of them that way – had accepted Draco. Of course it hadn't been easy – years of hostility don't crumble with the flick of a wand, however muggles may fantasise that magic works – but it had been worth it. Finally, on the end, sat George. His face was pale and strained; he looked distant from the events, and an almost painful frown tugged at his lips. Harry didn't take his expression personally. George had, since Fred's death in the battle, never returned completely to himself. Harry knew that family occasions were always difficult for him – especially any which celebrated love. He and Angelina, the love of Fred's life, had attempted to find solace in each other after his loss. The entire thing had been painful and ugly and ended disastrously. Harry's heart ached as he looked at him, knowing there was nothing anyone could do to reach him; not, of course, that they would ever stop trying._

" _Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy, if you will join your hands for the vows." The priest's requests jolted Harry back to life – how long had he been lost in thoughts of the crowd, not paying attention to his own bonding ceremony? – and he turned back to Draco, grasping his hands with a smile. As the priest spoke the vows they had chosen, a stream of gold erupted from the tip of his wand, looping Harry and Draco's joined hands. With each promise they agreed to a further loop formed and another knot was tied. Soon their hands were encased in a glittering wreath of their promises, glowing and pulsing with magic and love._

" _Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy have chosen rings for each other to display their bond to the world. The magic of their bond will be channelled into these rings and forever stored there." As the priest spoke the wreath of magic expanded to allow their hands to move, hovering until the rings were in place. Draco smoothly slid a box from the pocket of his robes – Harry watched the motion, momentarily caught off guard by just how damn hot Draco looked in the white silk he'd chosen – before fumbling for his own box. Naturally - because, when did things ever go smoothly for Harry? – it took him a while to locate the ring box and, when his fingers closed around the velvet, he sighed audibly in relief. Draco smirked as he caught the sound and Harry shot him a look of pure fire; not of anger, but of warning – a look which told Draco he would pay for that smirk later. Perhaps, Harry thought, in the form of Harry's newly ringed hand on his backside. Draco quirked his eyebrow in response, passion dancing in his eyes as he read Harry's unspoken message._

 _Harry slipped the ring he had chosen for Draco from the box, taking his lovers slender, pale hands and sliding the band onto his finger. The band was pure platinum and was laced with grey moonstones which reflected the depths of colour in Draco's eyes; Harry had selected each stone by hand and the making of the ring had cost a sizable amount of the Potter vault, but when he heard the way Draco's breath caught in his throat as Harry slid the ring to the base of his finger, he knew every penny spend had been worth it. Harry watched as Draco slipped out the ring he had for Harry and reached out to take his hand. As the ring was lowered onto his finger Harry saw the emeralds twinkling against the silver band and lifted his eyes to Draco's. His lover was smirking in an infuriatingly gorgeous way._

" _Slytherin colours," Harry whispered, lowering his voice so no one but Draco would hear him._

" _Naturally, how would I ever allow the second greatest admission you ever made to me go unrecognised?" Draco challenged, his voice an even lower whisper than Harrys as he referred to the night Harry had confessed to Draco that he could have easily been sorted into Slytherin and wondered how different their lives could have been._

" _Second to?" Harry asked in his whisper._

" _When you told me you loved me, of course."_

 _Harry smiled so brightly in that moment that, if there were any doubters left amongst their family and friends – Merlin, any doubters left in the wizarding world – about the depths of their relationship, they would be so blinded by the emotions erupting onto Harry's face that they would have no choice but to accept them._

" _If the Weasels ask –" even in his most attentive, loving moods Draco could still (naturally) find a way to piss Harry off. It was, Harry had to admit despite his glare, one of the reasons that drew them together like moths to burning flames. "- you can tell them it's in honour of your eyes. Your second greatest body part."_

 _Harry had only lifted an eyebrow before his unspoken question 'second to' was answered._

" _Second to your fine arse, of course." Draco's voice was so low, so gravely with seduction, that Harry was finding it very difficult to hold himself back._

 _It was pure damn luck that the priest announced that Harry may kiss his husband at the very moment he let go of his self-restraint and launched himself hungrily at Draco's lips._

The memory brought damp to the corners of Harry's eyes, a film of water blurring his vision before a sudden thought struck him and he blinked the wetness away, looking up at Hermione with a solid stare of determination.

"Hermione. Is there anything we can do with this?"

As Hermione looked up to meet his words, she was faced with the determined, unwavering stare of Harry with a plan, holding his bonding ring up for her to see.

* * *

The door to Draco's cell creaked open slowly yet with a screech which sounded like the wood would drop from the worn hinges at any moment. Draco told himself, whilst his rational mind was still active, not to hear any hope in the weak sound. He knew the door would be magically fortified, no doubt warded with magic of the darkest kind, and that the sound was for nothing but effect. Despite his desire to whip his head to the entrance he fought against the impulse determined not to allow his captors the success of his curiosity. Even in the cold of the cell the temperature dropped dramatically and this time Draco was unable to repress the shudder which ran down his spine. He couldn't help his bodily reaction to the cold, but he would not allow any further weakness; atmospheric charms were a standard part of Hogwarts education. He wasn't going to allow his captors defeat him with a charm a seventh year studying for N.E.W.T's could pull off in their sleep.

No light entered the room as the door opened, suggesting to Draco that the corridor outside was just as dark as his cell. He restrained the shudder at the thought of just how deep within a dungeon he was. He tried, instead, to focus on narrowing the possibilities. A place with a cell, a dungeon so deep that the lightness was literally non-existent; it had to be one of the old, historic pure blood homes. He didn't have time to mull over his suspicions, however, as a voice echoed into the room.

"Malfoy." The tone of the voice was cold, hard and laced with malice. Well, that wasn't a surprise; it was hardly likely the person holding him here _liked_ him. He said nothing – for what was there to say? – but determinedly kept his gaze at the darkness of the wall ahead, not turning to the voice as it carried from the doors opening. "Look at me when I speak to you." The voice demanded; yet again cold, hard and unwavering. Draco refused.

His neck cracked aloud with the force of the spell which hit him, snapping his head from the wall to the door and holding it there in a magical bind. Naturally, due to the darkness of the cell, Draco could make out nothing more than a cloaked, hooded figure which loomed in the doorway. Any assumptions Draco could make were limited to height (the person was rather tall, taller than Draco, perhaps, but from his place outside the cell door it was hard to tell) and size (skinny, but broad at the shoulders). Although that, of course, told him nothing. The figure could easily be polyjuiced or under glamours to alter its appearance. The one thing that Draco could determine, at least as far as he could see down the corridor behind, was that the figure was alone.

The magical force around Draco's neck and, the dark wooden length pointing from the tip of the figures sleeve, however, wisely reminded Draco that even if they were completely alone, facing the captor alone and unarmed would be foolish.

He glared ahead, fixated on giving his captor the most defiant expression he could muster – as a Malfoy, brought up by Lucius (however much he hated to think of him) he could conjure a blizzard cold sneer in the hardest of situations – determined to show he would not be worn down easily.

The figure did not speak again, merely laughed, a dark, low laugh devoid of any warmth or humour and, with a retreating step back, locked the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Here's the next chapter :). I will keep updating this story, but maybe not as quickly as every Sunday, as I don't _think_ it's as popular as some as my others, and I've had a few requests for sequels etc.. So if there's not much demand for this story I might spread my writing out over others - however, I do love this story (obviously, as I've written it!) so for anyone who is reading (hi, and thank you!) I will be finishing it. :)

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

After exhausting every possible avenue of the magic layered in the time worn pages of Draco's family spell books Harry's emotions had gone from carefully hopeful to crushingly hopeless. The look of pity in Hermione's eyes as he turned the final page of the last book was enough to carry him to his feet, to the fireplace and home without a word. He tumbled out into his own sitting room and flew through into the kitchen, hoping to find another letter, more news of Draco, waiting there for him.

The sight of a scroll on the table caused his heart to skip a beat. He ran wildly toward it – only taking three steps to cross the room to the table – before his heart crashed to the pit of his stomach. As he got closer, Harry could clearly see the Ministry of Magic seal adorning the parchment. He ripped it open without any real interest and read;

 _Mr Potter,_

 _Your notice of sickness absence, for a specified period of two weeks, has been received and filed by the Ministry and will be subsequently forwarded to the Auror office. This period of absence will be fully paid. After this time, if any further sickness absence is required, the Ministry shall require further confirmation of your illness from a St Mungo's healer, mediwizard or another licenced health professional._

 _Wishing you a speedy recovery,_

 _Geraldine Puddforth,_

 _Department of Inter-departmental relations,_

 _Ministry of Magic_

If this had been a normal day Harry would have been amazed by the sheer number of departments the Ministry of Magic seemed to operate, and how he could have been an Auror for the past five years without discovering all of them. It was not, of course, a normal day, and Harry was not amazed. The only part of the letter which stuck in his mind was the amount of time that had been requested in his name.

 _Two weeks._

He hoped it wasn't going to take any longer than a few days – a week at most, he'd been through many kidnapping cases with the Auror's to know that after a week the results tended to bow to the results no one wanted - to have Draco back with him. Merlin, it had been less than 24 hours and he was going crazy. The thought made Harry laugh, almost manically to himself. Four years ago he would have thought himself in requirement of much more than one week off work for having such thoughts about Draco Malfoy. Now the thoughts were as natural as breathing, yet without Draco he felt as if he were re-living his second Triwizard task in the Great Lake without Gillyweed.

The feeling left him utterly desolate. He glanced at the clock on his kitchen wall; half past six. It would usually be around this time that Draco arrived home from work. Harry would always be due home around seven, though would often not make it home until a full hour after Draco. There would always be a meal waiting, prepared, cooked and served to the upmost perfection – Draco, despite the many ways that he had changed, had been unable to relinquish his need for the Malfoy house elves – and they would share their food together, with Draco teasing Harry over a potential connection between having a hero complex and perpetual lateness. Such memories did little to quell the feeling of Harry's desolation and the thought of food made him feel sick to his stomach.

Shimmying the material of his sleeve, Harry pulled out his wand and vanished the Ministry's note with a simple flick. As if mocking him with its presence, the parchment containing the first note from Draco's captors rustled in his pocket with the movement. He clawed the offending parchment from his pocket and the sight of it in his hand once more caused another aggressive, unbidden burst of raw magic to leap from Harry's palms. Before he was even aware of his anger, a blistering ball of orange flames rose in his palm, engulfing the parchment in their heat. The flames flickered and seemed to hiss as ferociously as fiendfyre. Suddenly aware of the situation he leapt into action, grappling on the table for his wand with his left hand.

" _Aguamenti!"_ He yelled as forcefully as possible and, although a stream of water flowed elegantly from his wand it was swallowed by the ferocity of the flames beneath. Something stronger… Harry urged himself desperately, before calling out _"Aqua Eructo!"_ Aquamenti's sister charm produced an immediate, powerful eruption of water from Harry's wand. It cascaded from the tip of the holly's polished wood and bore down onto the flames. Under the force of the stronger charm they quelled, dying down until completely extinguished. Harry barely had to consciousness to marvel at the lack of burns on his hands; instead he took in the sight of the letter, now nothing but cinders in his hands. He allowed the ashes to float from between his fingers onto the table, sighing heavily. Although he knew the letter could offer him nothing – he and Hermione had exhausted every possible avenue of spell work, both light and dark – he felt as though he had severed the only link to Draco he had.

Exhausted from the bout of raw magic and the emotions of the day, Harry decided that retiring to bed could only be a good thing. The sooner he slept, he reasoned, the sooner morning would arrive and with it – he hoped – word from Draco's captors.

He took the stairs, and then the corridor, to their bedroom in a daze. He pushed open the door to find it as he always would – bed immaculately made, robes already set out for both he and Draco the next morning. Despite Harry leaving the room a mess that morning, Draco's elf Wilby had clearly seen no reason not to follow his masters usual instructions. As Harry passed the wardrobe doors he brushed his fingers against the soft, woven grey fabric of Draco's robes that would go unworn. For tomorrow, at least.

Overwhelmingly weary, his heart ached at the size of their king size bed. The bed was adorned in silk sheets (at Draco's insistence) in the richest shades of green that Harry had ever seen (again, at Draco's insistence). Harry sank down onto the sheets, barely kicking off his boots before he lay back against the covers. He had, without any conscious intention, found himself laying on Draco's side of the bed. As he lay back against the pillows, he remembered the day that Draco agreed to move in.

" _Something will need to be done about these sheets, Potter." Draco sneered as he placed his suitcase – or, rather, one of many suitcases – at the foot of Harry's bed._

" _You've never complained before." Harry retorted, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively._

 _Draco rolled his eyes in return, shaking his head with disdain. "That was before I agreed to live in them. A Malfoy should only sleep in the finest silk. I'll have Wilby bring us some from the Manor's stores."_

" _You're bringing your house elf?" Harry asked, momentarily thrown off track. This wasn't something they had discussed and, for one wild moment, he had visions of Hermione tearing through his home screaming like a banshee._

" _All of the elves will remain at the Manor, ensuring it stays suitably kept as a token of the family name." Draco explained stiffly; Malfoy Manor had been their first considerable argument. Draco had, at first, demanded Harry come and live with him at the Manor. Although Harry had no problems visiting Draco there once in a while, the thought of living there had sent shivers down his spine. Draco had been frustrated with Harry's refusal; which, at the time, he gave no reason for. Harry now cursed himself for not being honest with Draco about why he didn't want to make the Manor his home – the memories of the war, of Hermione's torture, were still too strong. Draco had been understand beyond a point Harry had ever thought possible, admitted his own whispered fears of how the Manor's walls could still haunt him after all the years, and made love to him with the most tender care before agreeing to move in with Harry. Therefore, here they were, a few days later, moving Draco's belongings over. Harry had barely realised, so lost in his thoughts, that Draco had started talking again. "Wilby, as head elf, will still be at my call. If this is to be where his master resides, he shall serve this house as he would the Manor. Wilby!" His final word was a call of the elf's name which could not be mistaken for anything less than a summon. With a sharp crack the elf appeared in the room, bowing lowly._

" _Master Malfoy, Wilby is being happy to answer you." The elf greeted as his head sunk to his toes before standing before Draco, expectant for orders._

" _Wilby, bring some of the silk sheets I have for my bed at the Manor and make this bed with them immediately. Additionally, you will clean this room daily, as you would do if it were my bedroom at the Manor. Understood?" Draco's voice was authoritative, confident and – Harry had to admit – downright sexy._

" _Wilby is understanding, Master Malfoy Sir. Wilby will do this now." With another crack the elf disappeared. Harry had time to raise an eyebrow, although not enough time to speak the question hovering on his lips when the elf re-entered the room with another crack. With two clicks of the his fingers, Wilby vanished the sheets that covered Harry's bed and replaced them with silk sheets of the deepest emerald._

" _Wilby is glad to be serving Master Malfoy. Master Malfoy will call for Wilby again." Once again the elf bowed low, to both Draco and – to Harry's surprise – to him before disapparating._

" _This will be my side of the bed." Draco said decisively as he sat himself down on the side of the bed which faced the large, bay window of Harry's bedroom which looked out onto the back garden, which was small but neatly presented. After several months after the war living in Grimmuald Place Harry had grown weary from the weight of the memories it bore down on him. He had offered the home to a charity for war orphans and set about restoring the home in Godric's Hollow that had belonged to his parents. He had been told, by several experts, that such dark magic could not be countered, but Harry had simply retorted that no one was meant to survive the dark magic of the killing curse either and, as if further explanation was needed, turned them away with a point toward his lightning bolt scar. After several months of work he had been able to turn the house from rubble and ruin to a home and it suited him perfectly._

" _Excuse me." Harry interrupted, pacing over to where Draco had sat himself. He hadn't challenged him on anything yet – from the most recent change of the bed sheets in Harry's room to the insistence that the spare room become altered by wizard space to allow for his abundance of, in Harry's opinion, completely ridiculous collection of robes – but this was something he wouldn't just accept. The side of the bed may seem like a trivial thing to argue about but, to Harry, it was important. "That's where I sleep."_

 _Draco turned to him, raising a questioning brow. "Well, it's where I sleep now. I have the side of the bed which faces the window, always."_

" _Well so do I." Harry pouted, crossing his arms. He knew his expression and actions made him look like a petulant child at best but he was unable to control them. Yes, he'd invited – begged, even, not that he would admit that – Draco to move in with him, but that didn't mean he would roll over and change everything to please him._

" _Tell me why then." Draco challenged with a dangerous glint in his eye._

" _What?" Harry asked, momentarily taken aback._

" _Tell me why. If your reason is better than mine then by all means, I'll let you have it."_

" _By all means, let me have it, it's my house anyway!" Harry muttered angrily under his breath, just loud enough for Draco to catch some words but not others. His mutterings, however, did little to unseat Draco. He stayed in his claimed position on the bed and looked patiently over at Harry as if waiting for him to speak._

" _Fine!" Harry sighed in exasperation, running a hand through his hair. He strode to the window, putting his hand on the ledge and seeing the sunlight that dappled across the garden, touching the plants below with its golden glow. He appreciated the view for a moment, the annoyance dropping from his tone as he spoke. "Since the war, with everything… All the death, with never knowing if I would make it or not… I like to wake up every morning to the sunlight, I like to be reminded that there's life left in the world."_

 _A moment of silence passed between them and, for a moment, Harry was sure that he had won. Not that his speech had been engineered to win – it was the truth. Darkness had ruled Harry's life for so long and now that it was gone, he craved the light in any way he could._

" _Touching, Potter, but not good enough." Draco's voice came from behind him. Harry was thrown by his tone, cold and collected. He spun on his heel, watching as Draco patted the bedcovers around him and began to plump the already enormous pillows, no doubt surreptitiously improved by Wilby's magic._

" _What?" He asked in disbelief, watching as Draco began to make himself more and more comfortable. "No. Oh no!" His exclamation did nothing to deter Draco from his nesting so Harry crossed the small step to the bed and sat down beside him. "It doesn't work like that. I don't tell you something so personal without you telling me yours. I want to hear it."_

 _"Hear what, Potter?" Draco drawled, his tone still cool, although it did nothing to put Harry off. In fact, it only pushed him harder – he had now known Draco well enough, and intimately enough, to know that this was a defensive move._

" _The story that means you deserve this side of the bed more than I do." He replied, keeping his voice level and steady. He liked to think he'd come a long way from the hot headed person he had been; in times gone by he would bite back at Draco with an equally cold and cutting tone resulting in a disastrous argument; whilst he still allowed himself the luxury sometimes (for it always ended in brilliant make up sex… well, eventually, anyway) he had taught himself that the best way to handle Draco in these moods was to be calm but firm. Sensing his partner's hesitation Harry reached out his hand and placed it on the blondes knee. "I'm listening." He said, this time whispering reassuringly._

 _Draco blinked and looked down. His gaze was trained carefully on his shoes although his hand slowly lifted to cover Harry's. Harry sat, waiting patiently, not pushing Draco until he was ready to start._

" _After you escaped the Manor, my aunt was furious. She knew, as soon as the battle erupted, who you were and…" Draco paused, a nervous tongue darting out to wet his lips – not a gesture he did subconsciously, Harry knew, but a purposeful one to give him time to rest. "And that I had lied to them. She was furious, determined to hand me over to the Dark Lord." Draco's eyes closed and with this pause a shudder wracked his frame. "My mother begged her not to; my father was indifferent, naturally." A sneer broke through Draco's cold reserve at the mention of his father and it was all Harry could to not to ball his fists in anger. "Eventually my mother must have worn her down. But she still demanded a compromise… So I was taken to the Malfoy dungeons. You thought you saw the worst of them when you rescued Olivander and the Lovegood girl." Draco paused to laugh here but it was a cold, emotionless sound. "Not at all. She put me in the smallest cell, barely big enough for me to stand, right in the depths of our chambers. She kept me there for a month."_

 _Silence crept across the bedroom as Draco's story came to an end, Harry all too aware of the way his lovers hand trembled atop of his. He curled his hand so his palm rose to meet Draco's and wound their fingers in a comforting embrace._

" _So, you see. You might like to see the light every morning, but I_ need _to see it."_

 _Harry snaked an arm around Draco's waist and gently prised their fingers apart, gently lifting them to cup the blonde's cheek and lift his gaze to meet his own. "It's your side of the bed." Harry murmured softly, slowly stroking his thumb against the pallor of Draco's soft, pale cheek. "Besides, if I see you every morning, that's better than light to show me there's still life left in the world."_

 _Draco rolled his eyes at Harry's speech, although a smile remained on his lips and he didn't move away from his tender touch. "Sap. The Sorting Hat should have put you in bloody Hufflepuff." He muttered, although Harry could tell he was pleased by the words._

" _It wanted to put me in Slytherin, actually." Harry told him, delighting in the way that Draco's eyes lit with wonder, suspicion and, above all, a thirst for gossip, that made Harry laugh aloud. "But that's a story of another day."_

He clutched Draco's pillow to his chest, burying his face in the soft, silk cover and inhaling the scent of his expensive cologne which lingered, but also the citrus and the natural scent of all things Draco. His body heaved with dry sobs, every single one without a tear as if afraid a single drop would wash his lovers scent away, until he fell asleep.

 _-oo-_

When Draco awoke, he knew a day had passed. He had slept for some time, he could tell from the aching of his bones as he pulled himself up and attempted to stretch in the small space which accommodated him. He took check of each of his limbs, slowly moving each arm and leg before he extended to fingers and toes, nodding to himself as he accounted them all. No visits from his captors in his sleep then.

Not physical ones, anyway.

Despite the long sleep he was sure he had his eyes drooped with fatigue. He knew this came from the hunger which knawed at his stomach and, more uncomfortably, the thirst that dried his throat. His last meal had been breakfast on the day he had been kidnapped; he would say yesterday but, as he had realised himself, he had no idea how long the enchanted sleep his captors had put him in had lasted for. Minutes? Hours? Days? All he knew that it had been a day now since he had been conscious and that was a day too long. He let out a breath of frustration, throwing his head back against the stone of his cell. Damp trickled down the wall behind him, running down the collar of his robes and over his neck. His tongue ached with thirst at the cool feel of water on his skin but he pushed the feeling away – Malfoy's, of all people, certainly did not lick walls.

With nothing but silence to haunt him, the taunting voice of his captor rung in his ears. Malfoy… Malfoy… Malfoy… The more the greeting replayed itself in his mind, the more certain Draco became that it was a voice he knew. Who the voice belong to, however, he could not say. The more he forced the memory upon himself, the more lost he became, conjuring his name in the voice of many people. As the hours rolled on, the only voice that would come to him was Harry's, calling his name in the many ways he had throughout the years.

" _Malfoy." He sneered, raising his wand in sixth year before casting the curse which cursed Draco forever._

" _Malfoy." He nodded, tight lipped, as he returned his wand at the end of the Battle of Hogwarts, as every pair of eyes that weren't maddened with grief watched on._

" _Malfoy.." He began, in a soft, pitiful tone before he told the Wizengamot why they should pardon him for his many listed war crimes._

" _Er… Malfoy…" He mumbled, the first time he had asked Draco to join him for a drink, red faced and refusing to meet his eye._

" _Draco.." He breathed, the first time he said his given name, in the same breath that he had requested Draco call him by his._

" _Draco.." He moaned in pleasure, the first time they fucked, and every time after that._

As his thoughts of Harry's voice penetrated his subconscious gnawing of hunger he thought of Harry, of their kitchen, of Wilby and the meals he always so excellently prepared. Summoning Wilby didn't work – of course, he had already tried – his captor clearly knew enough Dark Magic to ward out a house elf. He thought of the times that Harry woke before him and made them breakfast in bed – if there was one thing to be said for the awful muggles who raised him, it was that Harry had learnt how to make a good breakfast – and spent the morning together beneath the sheets.

Unable to take the weight of his emotions any longer, Draco began to cry, yet no tears escaped him. His body was dried from thirst.

Perhaps, he thought, Malfoy's weren't above licking walls after all.

 _-oo-_

The exhaustion from Harry's emotions, and the bursts of raw magic that had flown from him in his anger, left him sleeping right through until a persistent tapping at the window awoke him. He blinked furiously as light bathed his eyes, first flying into a wild panic. _Shit_ , he was so late for work. That owl would definitely be from Robards who always seemed to be looking for the way to put Harry down to prove killing one Dark Lord didn't make a true Auror. Well, now he clearly had something to start with – and Merlin, why was Harry still wearing his robes from the day before? He jumped from the bed, barely pausing to puzzle why he had been sleeping on Draco's side, and rushed to the window. But it wasn't a Ministry owl…

Sudden realisation hit Harry as the previous day's events washed over him. In a trance he stumbled backwards until his calves hit the bed behind and he sank down onto it, resting his shaking elbows on his knees and putting his head between his hands.

Draco, gone, the note…

He was allowed no more time, however, to dwell on the situation. The now familiar owl tapped persistently at the window and Harry stood once more to open the window, allowing the bird to fly into the room and offer Harry the note tied to its leg. The bird then took flight once more, disappearing without a single beg for a treat. That was very unusual; clearly the owner of the owl had told the bird that the letter was very important.

He tore the scroll open and read;

 _Harry,_

 _Open your Floo – I know you're not well, but I think I have some potions that could make you feel better._

 _Hermione_

Confusion only clouded Harry's find for a moment before he dropped the note in his eagerness to reach the fireplace in his sitting room. Of course Hermione would be writing in code – they had learnt during the war that owls could be all too easily intercepted – and he had barely time to consider what Hermione could mean before he waved his wand with a non-verbal gesture, opening the wards over his Floo and threw in a familiar handful of green powder into the flames before bending to put his head into the now harmless flames.

Hermione's face instantly swam into focus; she looked drawn, pale with dark rings around her eyes as if she had spent most of the night awake reading. Harry instantly felt guilty for the length of sleep he'd had; if his friend could spend the night awake searching for answers to find Draco, surely he, Draco's husband, could do the same? Her eyes, however, twinkled with the bright light which always overtook them when she had an idea. For the first time, Harry allowed hope to uncurl within him,

"Harry!" She called before dropping down to her knees before the flames. "Can I come through? Rose is at The Burrow for the day and Ron's at work."

Harry only nodded before he stood, pulling his face from the flames and stepping back to allow Hermione entrance. A few moments later the flames shone emerald and his friend stepped from the flames, a heavy book under her arm.

"I simply can't believe I didn't think of it! I'm so sorry, Harry, I was so busy thinking of _spells_ that I didn't think of _potions_ …" She slammed the heavy tome down onto the antique coffee table Draco had insisted on bringing with him from the Manor – Harry could just imagine the grimace such an action would cause – and began to leaf through its pages.

"Hermione…" Harry began as he took in the title on the spine of the book. "Why do you have a copy of ' _Moste Potente Potions'_?"

Hermione's cheeks coloured lightly before she admitted; "I bought it a few years ago… For memories." Harry didn't have time to comment on how strange it was that Hermione had bought a book with such _questionable_ content for memories of their second year because she flicked her hair over her shoulder and continued; "Anyway, you ought to be glad I have it, because I found this." She stopped with her finger on the title of a potion which spanned across both of the books open pages.

"Visus Amatorum" Harry read aloud, before puzzling his gaze down at the list of ingredients and raising his eyebrows… It contained some frowned upon items at best and a few downright illegal ones at worst.

"Lovers sight." Hermione translated for him; clearly her Latin language book was becoming her new best friend. She pointed to a passage of text to the right of the ingredient list Harry had become absorbed in and read "Once brewed, _Visus Amatorum_ will do exactly as its name implies in allowing the drinker to see where their true lover lies whenever the connection is required. The drinker will not be physically present, nor visible or audible in any way. Such a connection requires a bond between two souls and, in their quest to seek their lover, the drinker must prepare to sacrifice their singular soul to be with their mate."

"So I'd be able to see Draco? Exactly where he is, right now?" Harry asked, scanning over the words Hermione had read to him. "That's perfect! If I knew where he was, I could-"

"Harry James Potter." Hermione stopped him with a raised hand. "You need to understand the consequences of this. It's soul magic, the sacrifice it talks of… 'the drinker must prepare to sacrifice their singular soul to be with their mate'" She quoted, a haunted look overtaking her features. "It's considered as dark as splitting your soul, Harry, combining it with another. If Mal- Draco were to ever die, you wouldn't survive. He could survive without you, but as the drinker, you'd be pnning your soul to his, you existence would cease when his did."

"So if Draco dies, I die… But if I were to die, he wouldn't?" Harry clarified and, when Hermione nodded, set his face determinedly. "Well, I don't see anything wrong there." He said stubbornly.

"It's not just that, Harry… When we die, the soul moves on, beyond the Veil; you saw it as well as I did when Sirius…" She paused, swallowing uncomfortably. Harry knew she was, as he now was, remembering how Sirius passed through the veil to the other side; before they had all witnessed his death, only Harry and Luna had been able to hear the whispers of the souls beyond. Long after that day Hermione admitted that, once she had witnessed death, she could too hear the whispers of the souls through the veil. "But if you tamper with your soul, Harry, if you change it in any way, you won't be able to go on. You will… cease to exist." Her last words were a mortified whisper and, for a while, Harry was thrown. He thought of the moment in limbo where he met Dumbledore, when he was given the option to move on or to go back; how tempting it had been to think of seeing his mother, his father, Sirius… And now Remus, Tonks, Fred and so many more joined that list… He had been able to turn away, to come back, knowing that one day he would be able to see them again.

But if he saved Draco, he would never…

He shook his head, banishing the thought before it began. Those people were dead. Draco was alive. Harry had to do whatever he could.

"It doesn't matter." He replied, his voice more firm than necessary, as if he were convincing himself as well as Hermione.

"But Harry…" Hermione began, with everything from her tone of voice, to her body language to the look in her eyes pleading "They have him.. What if they…"

"Then my life wouldn't be worth living anyway." Harry said icily, decision made the second he thought of Draco with his captors, his tongue as sharp as a blade as it cut her protests to silence. His gaze bore her down, challenging and hard, daring her to attempt to convince him otherwise. If Draco were here he would roll his eyes and scorn Harry's martyr complex.

But, Harry knew, Draco would do the same for him too.

"Even so," Hermione sighed wearily, clearly accepting that she would be unable to dissuade Harry – if she hadn't wanted him to use the potion, why had she brought it to him anyway? – and taking a different tactic. "Where are you planning to find these?" She asked, tapping her finger against the two illegal ingredients the potion required.

"Well, that's the easy part." Harry said as he grinned from the sheer delight that, for the first time since he received the letter, he had a plan.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"And how is that?"

Hermione's hands had settled on her hips, her expression fierce and unwavering. She looked remarkably like Professor McGonogall and, in that moment, Harry found himself feeling sorry for Rose in her upcoming years.

"Well, with Draco running a potions store.." He began, talking slowly and with a hint of sarcasm, hoping he could wind her up enough to throw her off track of the particular ingredients she was referring to.

He had no such luck.

"Not for _these_ ingredients." She insisted, tapping her finger on their place on the page and looking at Harry with a look so stern he wasn't surprised she had been made a Prefect. "And if he has, moving such ingredients through his business! Is he selling them in potions to the public? If he's as serious about rebuilding the Malfoy name as you say he is-" Hermione's voice had crept up to a borderline hysterical shriek and Harry shook his head to silence her, preparing to admit the now painful truth about the ingredients in question.

"It's not for his shop. It's for me – us." Harry sighed as he sank back against the back of the chair he sat in, feeling as if he needed the physical support to hold him through the story. "When… When you found out you were expecting Rose I was devastated. I was happy for you – of course I was – but it was just a reminder for me of something I'd never have… A family of my own." Harry paused, collecting his thoughts and determinedly blinking away the wetness that had pooled in his eyes before he continued "Draco knew something was wrong, he wouldn't stop pressing me about it.. He thought I was getting cold feet about the bonding." Harry chuckled, a dry, shallow laugh, as he remembered the day he had returned home from work to Draco with his bags packed, declaring that he wouldn't stay and wait around for Harry to call off the engagement – that had, in the end, been the night that Harry confessed the truth to him. "But then I admitted to him how I felt about you and the baby, how it was all I wanted but couldn't have… And then he told me about wizarding pregnancy, how it can happen naturally in extreme cases such as male veela but can be… encouraged." Harry took a glance at Hermione at this point and watched understanding span her features. Of course Hermione would know about such a complex, unspoken potion that had no common application in the wizarding world at large; it was just the sort of thing she appreciated when looking for a little 'light reading'. "The potion itself isn't illegal, just three of the ingredients… because of their use in other potions, like the two in there." He nodded his head toward the book as he finished, settling his gaze on the emotions running over Hermione's face.

Their years of friendship had allowed him to read her expressions with ease and right now he could see, above all of the conflicting emotions she felt at the story, was the one remaining question, the need for the only fact she still did have – where Harry and Draco got their hands on the ingredients.

"George uses a few… _Questionable_ items in some of the Wheeze products. Me and Ron always make sure it goes unnoticed, can't take away the only thing he's got…" Harry grew quiet as he thought of the lone twin. "So I told him about what I needed, why I needed it… He got it for me. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, it's just that Draco didn't even know if he'd be able to brew it, he was getting so close, in fact I think he might have even managed it, then…." Harry didn't need to continue; Hermione knew the rest.

 _Harry knocked on the back for of Weasley's Wizard Wheeze. It was the middle of a bright, pleasantly warm spring Saturday and Diagon Alley was busy with the bustle of shoppers. Despite that Harry knew that he would not find the person he was looking for tending his shop as he once would have, but in the rooms behind. He stood back, waiting. He knew that knocking again would do no good; some days George would answer and others, quite simply, he would not. If today was not the day – Harry tried to push away a stab of sadness at the thought – he would simply try again another time._

 _He was just about to step back into the alleyway and apparate away when the door creaked open._

" _George!" Harry called out in greeting, closing the step back toward the door he had only just taken away. George nodded in return, his features pale and drawn, his eyes haunted by their permanent sorrow. Harry felt a twist of guilt for the purely selfish reason behind his visit – he should visit more, he knew he should, but with the Auror's, Draco and planning their bonding ceremony.. He'd barely had any spare time at all. He pushed the thought away and fixed a friendly, open expression to his face. "You free for a drink?"_

" _Not really, I'm a bit busy – new products being developed and, y'know…" George said, shifting his weight between his feet. Harry, who had become increasingly perceptive thanks to his Auror training and years of work in the field, easily saw the words for what they were – a feeble façade to turn Harry away. He had to find a way around it, a way to get inside. Who knew if the next time he called round if George would answer the door at all? It wasn't just Harry; he had lost count of the times during his relationship with Ginny she had returned home in floods of tears from sitting on George's doorstep for hours unanswered._

" _Well, it was a bit of a favour I wanted, actually… It's kind of private. About Ron and Hermione – their baby?" Harry said. He felt another awful wave of guilt wash over him at his voice of words; it was true, yes, that the favour was private and it was also true – at least in a way – that it was about Ron and Hermione's baby. If it hadn't been for Hermione announcing her pregnancy, he wouldn't have felt the way he did, Draco wouldn't have looked up the potion, and Harry wouldn't be here asking for ingredients. But he had purposely chosen to structure his words in such a way that would peak what could be tempted of George's interest by alluding to an unborn niece or nephew; George 's grief may have isolated him from his generation of family but Harry knew, from watching him at family gatherings, he always had soft word for Victorie, a sweet for Percy's daughter Lucy or even a new toy for Teddy._

 _George didn't speak, but he nodded, holding open the door and allowing Harry to come inside. As he stepped over the threshold and up the stairs to the flat above the shop Harry, as ever, made a conscious attempt not to grimace; the small sitting room was overflowing with dirty dishes, unopened post and general mess. A quick glance around through the flat's open doors into the few rooms – the kitchen, George's bedroom and a small room used for product testing - all told the same story; the story of a home in ruin. Harry knew that Mrs Weasley had tried everything and had even cleaned it for him a number of times but George always allowed it to return to the same state._

 _George pushed a stack of unread Daily Prophet's to the side of an armchair and perched himself down on the cushions. Harry mirrored his lead, placing an unwashed bowl of what Harry assumed had been cereal on top of an already teetering pile of dishes on the low table which centred the room._

 _"So, Ron and Hermione – the baby – they're ok?" George asked, his usual bland, emotionless face flickering with rare concern. It warmed Harry's heart to see the old George beneath the surface yet brought him another twist of guilt in the way he had presented his problem._

" _Yes, they're all fine. It's me, actually." Harry admitted, scratching the back of his head in a nervous habit he had picked up since the war ended._

" _But you said.." George began, the brief flicker of concern long gone, with now only a shadow of confusion in its place._

" _It is to do with the baby." Harry hurried to explain, cutting George off before he could say anymore. He knew his hurry was in part to ease the guilt he felt but also due to nerves; George would be the first person either he or Draco were telling about their plans. He looked down, unable to face the look George may give him when he realised Harry had somewhat tricked him into listening to his problems. "Ever since Hermione announced the news, well… I've been down. It was always on my mind, reminding me of something I could never have. Ever since I realised what a real family was, I've always wanted my own, but I knew with Draco I could never have it…" Harry knew he was beginning down a path of self-pity which George didn't need to hear; yes, Harry wanted a family he thought he couldn't have. But he had a lover, and friendship, and a job he loved. His life was full in other places. But George… "Anyway. Draco noticed how different I'd been and eventually he made me admit it. He's been researching and, well… He's found a potion that might make it possible." Harry pushed on, past his self-pity and past his sorrow for George. Dwelling on such thoughts would do neither of them any good. "For us to have a baby." He clarified when George didn't speak, looking up and searching for his gaze._

" _You're going to have a baby with Malfoy?" George's face was dumbfounded – he had likely not known such a thing was possible either, Draco had explained to him how little known the potion had become over the past centuries._

" _Well, we're going to try…" Harry said, nodding, seizing the opportunity to push forward with his request. "But we need some certain_ … restricted _ingredients. I know you can get them all, with what me and Ron have turned a blind eye to, so I was hoping… You could help me?" By the time Harry had finished speaking he had pulled the small square of parchment from his pocket which contained the names of the ingredients their potion would need._

 _George stood abruptly; his eyes flashed for a moment but the emotion was so brief Harry missed it. Harry mirrored the movement, all too eager to get up from the sofa he had occupied – it smelt faintly of rotten eggs – and faced George._

" _We all want things we can't have." Was all he said, though he held his hand out for the parchment._

 _Harry passed the square across, mentally kicking himself for his earlier words whilst at the same time trying to force away the smile that bubbled at his lips knowing that George would get the items they needed._

 _George took the parchment, nodded to the door which led to the stairs, and turned his back. He swept away to the small room he used to test his products and, within a few moments, a vial of amber liquid, a small hessian sack containing what felt like beans and a glass jar of what Harry could only describe as thick black hairs landed in Harry's arms. He quickly conjured a bag to hide the items inside and lifted his head to offer a smile of thanks – and an apology for his thoughtless words – to George._

 _Yet when he looked up he was standing alone. George had not returned from the testing room – Harry knew he could seek him out, he had been witness to many lively product experiments in the room before Fred had died and a few more sombre ones since his death – but he knew that it was a signal that he had outstayed his welcome. It was nothing personal, he knew, but that George wanted to be alone._

" _Thank you." He called out to the doorway he knew George to be inside and turned to the stairs, clutching his bag of ingredients tightly and beaming all the way._

Hermione's lips were pursed in disapproval, although she rearranged her features with a soft shake of her head. "I understand, Harry." She said, reaching across to place her hand over his. "You'll get the chance, we'll make sure of it. We'll go to Draco's shop – we'll have to disapparate under disillusionment charms, you never know if the shops being watched – and we'll have a look at his ingredients. The brewing facilities there will be better too, if we can find some way to stifle the chimneys smoke so it doesn't look like anyone's inside… I'm sure I read about a spell somewhere…" With that she rose, heading toward the kitchen, muttering to herself about charms and a book she had at home.

-ooo-

The door creaked slowly open and Draco hauled himself quickly to a sitting position, staring ahead to the direction of the sound yet seeing nothing as, once again, his captor had declined to light the corridor behind him.

"I thought you might appreciate some entertainment." A voice spoke, echoing against the walls of the cold, dank cell. It was the same voice that visited Draco before, the same voice he had been sure he had known, but couldn't place. His ears peaked and his mind flew into action. _Stay calm, listen to the voice_. _Not the words_ , Draco told himself, _no matter what he says you will have heard worse in your time_ – Draco paused to shudder at the memory of his first few visits to Diagon Alley after his exoneration for the war, the biting comments, the outright challenges, the hysterical shrieks – he had held his head high then, despite it all, surely he could focus on a voice now, rather than the words it spoke. "I've finished my letter to your… _Other half._ " The voice sneered "I could do with the reaction of an invested audience before I send it."

Draco, however, did not hear the latter sentence. His heart began to thump wildly. _Harry_. He yearned at the thought of his lover in a way he would have considered pitiful until their love affair had turned his emotions upside down, yet now only made his heart ache. The mention of Harry threw Draco from all thoughts of the promise he had made himself to analyse every intonation, every tone, every beat of the voice that spoke to him. Instead, all he could think of was Harry.

"Potter." The voice began, and just hearing Harry's surname on his captors tongue, laced with so much hatred, was enough to force Draco to bite down on his lip to hold back a hiss of distaste. It wouldn't do to reveal his emotions. "As you are aware, he is ours. We have him.." Draco tried to force himself to repress the shudder of fear that threatened his spine, the vague reoccurrence of " _ours_ " and " _we_ " fogged through his mind _; so this man, the only one I've seen, he isn't alone_ , Draco's thoughts allowed him to summarise from the words, although he could focus on little else except that Harry would soon, no doubt, be reading the same ones. "He must be avenged and we will take great pleasure in doing so. He will be honoured in death, he will be avenged, he will have his justice." The voice snapped back into Draco's consciousness, cold and sharp. The way the voice spoke of "he" almost sent a shiver of disgust down his spine; it was reminiscent of the way his Aunt Bellatrix, of the way his father and the other Death Eaters who frequented the Manor during the war spoke of the Dark Lord. The words struck him like a blade; Harry had always feared the letters which would take away his lovers as acts of revenge from wild dark wizards; the ever loyal, ever illusive Death Eaters who still managed to evade capture and – even worse, Harry had said – the new, crazed dark lords who would attempt to rise, convinced their power would be proven, their word would be obeyed, if they were the ones to finally destroy The Boy Who Lived.

Draco knew the voice was continuing, outlining a meeting place for his captors and Harry, but Draco was unable to listen to anymore. His mind had begun to spin with the dots he had connected; only those who still lived to serve the previous Dark Lord, the remaining few Death Eaters, would speak of 'he' in such a way. Draco tried to cling to the hope that, at least, they were the lowest in the ranks of Harry's fears. They weren't, however, so low down in Draco's…

"I see you are not paying attention." The voice quipped as the non-verbal charm he had used previously spun through the air, forcing Draco's head – and his thoughts with it – back to his captor with a painful crack. "You believe Potter will save you. Not if I have my way. You dare to live, to succeed, when _he_ is gone?" The voice asked, almost on the edge of hysteria. "He _will_ be avenged, _he will have his justice_."

With that, the charm holding Draco's face toward his captor broke as he left the cell, slamming the door behind him and leaving Draco alone once again

Suddenly alone and pursued by the thought of Death Eaters, he tried in vain to run the list of known alive, but currently missing, names who had fled at the moment of the Dark Lords defeat and who, as of yet, the Ministry had not managed to hunt down. It was information that, although he shouldn't, Harry often shared with him. He would awake shaking in the middle of the night, from a nightmare, and confess to Draco the Auror office's latest hunt for a Death Eater who had been sighted.

Avery… Roinwell… Amycus Carrow who, despite being captured once, had managed to evade Aurors during a fight during the journey to Azkaban which had killed his sister…

Draco knew that for many of those capturing Draco Malfoy as Harry Potter's lover would be up there with their wildest dreams. Ruining the life of the noble, worshiped Harry Potter who vanquished their Lord and, at the same time, taking merciless, no doubt painful, revenge on a Malfoy they considered a traitor. As that thought crossed Draco's mind the scar on his arm where the Dark Mark once blazed seemed to throb as if reminding him of its presence.

But who was it? Draco cursed himself for being so easily thrown from his promise to listen to the voice and find its owner.

Who, however, was no longer the main question on Draco's mind. The question that taunted him now was _why._

 _Why_ wouldn't his captors use a voice distorter? _Why_ would they be so open to the possibility Draco would identify their voices? The charms were simple enough to master, after all, especially for someone who had the strength of magic to contain and conceal a wizard as Draco was….

Unless.

Unless his captor had not cared to conceal his voice because Draco hearing it, knowing who he was, didn't matter at all because he would kill Draco anyway…

 _You believe Potter will save you. Not if I have my way._

-o-

"Harry." Hermione's voice called from the kitchen, level and calm and perfectly Hermione. Harry pulled himself to his feet, lazily heading toward the kitchen.

"Have I run out of floo powder again?" He called out as he walked through the corridor to the kitchen. "I don't know why your so against apparition, it's much quicker and _cleaner."_

When Harry entered the kitchen, however, he saw that Hermione hadn't even made it as far as the fireplace. She was stood beside the table, standing so still it eeirely reminded Harry of when she had been petrified in their second year, staring intently at something on the oak surface.

It was then, as Harry followed her gaze, that he saw a roll of parchment waiting for him in the centre of the table. No post owl, no open window, nothing.

Just like the last.

He leapt forward and opened the scroll with fumbling fingers, his heart beating so forcefully he was sure that it would burst from his chest and splatter blood over the words before he could read them. As if he thought such a thing may actually happen his eyes darted over the page, taking in the scrawled words within seconds.

 _Potter._

 _As you are aware, he is ours. We have him._

 _He must be avenged and we will take great pleasure in doing so. He will be honoured in death, he will be avenged, he will have his justice._

 _If you wish to see your partner alive again, follow the apparition coordinates at the foot of this message. Our meeting will take place at midnight tonight._

 _I trust, of course, you have told no one of our current circumstances._

 _Remember, we are watching._

 _Tuus_ _Hostis Occulti._

Harry knew Hermione was reading over his shoulder when the familiar green glow of the detection charms passed over the parchment he held. The note, as Harry expected, was just as tightly protected as the last. Hermione must have expected it too, he knew, but she let out a sigh of frustration all the same.

"It looks like the brewing will have to wait." He muttered, rolling the note up and pushing it into his pocket.


	5. Chapter 5

Hello! First of all, apologise to anyone who was reading this when I abandoned it for a while. With my oneshots and other stories getting more readers/reveiws, I sort of lost the inspiration for this story as I didn't think as many people were enjoying it - however I'm back now and ready to concentrate on writing again! I hope people are happy to see the story back, and I hope you can forgive me for leaving this update so long. I promise now, I will see this story to the end. :)

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

When Ron was satisfied he'd cast every detection charm he could think of over the parchment (Hermione had, of course, explained that they had already done this, but Harry had been too tired to fight him on it) he sat down at Harry's kitchen table with the letter spread before them with a hard, stubborn expression which often overcame him when Auror meetings on strategy were called. Ron, given his natural abilities in wizard chess, had found the strategic planning elements of the career easy even as early as their training. Harry, despite calming considerably since his Hogwarts days, still had much more of an 'act now, think later' approach. Yet with – he glanced at the clock for what he knew must be the nearing the fiftieth time since he received the letter – two and a half hours to go until the meeting he knew he could afford to indulge Ron in his scheming. Besides, he would freely admit, his best friend often had some fantastic ideas.

"Well, it's clear that he wants you to come alone." Ron stated flatly, stating the obvious in a way which often riled Harry; picking over already obvious details was tedious to him and, when Draco was alone, Merlin knows where with Merlin knows who… It was a colossal waste of time.

"But we can't have that!" Hermione interjected from her chair, to which Ron nodded.

"Obviously. That's why we'll go under disillusionment charms." Ron said, holding up a firm hand as Hermione opened her mouth to raise an objection. "Not standard ones, Auror regulation. Harry and I can cast them no problem. The only way to reverse them is time – they last about three hours – or the counter charm which is known to Aurors only."

Hermione's lips closed and she shrank back in her seat, nodding in agreement. In any other situation Harry would have found Ron's intelligence for magic Hermione didn't know existed amusing to watch but now, of course, the only thing he cared for was Draco.

"We'll have to apparate perfectly in sync to hide the sound. Perhaps even arrive earlier. It'd be good to stake out the scene anyway, but I bet they'll already be ready with wards and-"

"So won't the wards prevent anyone but Harry from entering?" Hermione interrupted.

"To have wards that block out everyone but specific people, you'd need to know that persons magical signature to key into your wards and I doubt they know Harry's… If they do, we have a much bigger problem on our hands." Ron's face turned ashen and grim has he mulled over the thought and Harry had to physically bite down on his lip to prevent himself from interrupting with his unspoken thought _'could there be any bigger problem than Draco being missing?_ '.

Harry tuned out as Ron and Hermione strategized, comforting himself in repeating in his mind the incantations for some of the more colourful curses Draco's dark art's books had boasted and taking great pleasure in simultaneously ranking them in terms of pain and in the order in which he would cast them. There was no doubt about it; as soon as Draco was safe, his captors would suffer.

At eleven, Harry could take no more, and leapt up from his chair. "So are we going?" He demanded impatiently.

Ron blinked and looked across the room to his best friend as if he had forgotten Harry was even there.

"Well, we can mate, I mean, we know what we're doing." He said, pulling himself to his feet and pulling out his wand.

"Well _we_ do." Hermione interjected, her gaze settling on Harry as she stressed her words. "But you haven't been listening at all, have you?"

Harry's cheeks reddened slightly in embarrassment of the knowledge he'd been caught out, yet he raised his chin defiantly (a trait that all the Weasley's had taken great pleasure in pointing out, he'd got from Draco). "Excuse me if I find it hard to sit around and _talk_ when _Draco is missing_." His voice lowered into a hiss over the last syllables, his bubbling anger spilling out and flying into the faces of his best friends. He knew they didn't deserve it, but they were the only ones there.

Shame filled him as Hermione stood and moved toward him to place a soothing palm on his shoulder. "We'll find him Harry. Together. That's why it's important we all know what we're doing."

Harry sighed, giving in with a nod as he watched his friends take their seats again. He forced himself to listen to their plan but now he was up he couldn't force his legs back into the chair; he was stood, his body poised and ready for battle, his wand burning against his forearm in the easy access holster it was in. He paced the kitchen as he listened, eyes wide and body alert. His ears were filled with Ron's strategy, which he had to admit worked well. They would attempt to apparate in early, hoping that any wards had been lifted in anticipation of Harry's arrival. If they were simply thrown back, they would wait until midnight to arrive. Harry didn't like that part of the plan, so chose not to dwell on it. He preferred acting now, being closer to Draco, being closer to his revenge. So instead he focused on the plan that would see them arrive at the meeting place for half past 11, giving Ron chance to silently test the limits of the wards and search the area for any clues. Hermione would remain by Harry's side, cool and observant in a way they had (quite rightly, he had to admit) they knew Harry wouldn't. They had thrown around the idea of placing tracking charms on the captors who appeared, yet they knew that such magic would mostly likely be warded against and would only end up making their situation worse. Harry had been unable to, at that point, hold back his previously unspoken thought of _"How can anything be worse than Draco being taken?"_ to which Hermione had immediately and, very sternly, with an air that reminded Harry of Professor McGonagall, shut him down with _"If they take you too, Harry James Potter, there won't be a lot you can do to help Draco, will there?_ ".

With their approach decided, Ron had had to concede that there was no difference in attempting to arrive at twenty past eleven rather than half past. Once both Ron and Hermione had been disillusioned Ron's voice floated eerily from nowhere, counting them into their apparition;

"Three, two, one…"

-oo-

Draco couldn't force himself into sleep. He had no idea how long he had been awake; the dark, tight containment of his cell was starting to play tricks on his mind. He tried with all the power he had to focus, to stay alert and active, stubbornly fighting against the memory of what became of his when Bellatrix had kept him in the Malfoy cellars…

Dwelling on the memory, of course, was completely the opposite of what would help keep him sane this time around. So instead he thought of the conversation he had with his captor; when he had had it, he couldn't say. It could have been as little as an hour ago, or as long as a day. Time had blurred into nothing for Draco, his only anchor to reality was the gnawing hunger in his stomach; his thirst had been quenched by a trickle of water seeping through a crack in one corner. Yes, it had been stale and putrid, no doubt the remnants of rain which had sept through the layers of stone which caged him, but to Draco it had been as crisp and refreshing as an _aguamenti_ on a burning summer day. He had kept himself in the corner, allowing the steady trickle to run over his chapped lips, soothing his dry tongue and aching throat, until the stream had run dry.

So now he sat, with his mind back on the time, and back on the conversation he'd had. His captor had spoken of his letter for Harry, of arranging their meeting. But how long had it been? Surely it had been long enough for him to have sent the letter and for Harry to have received it? Had it been long enough that they had already met? A cold shiver ran down Draco's spine; if they had met and Harry wasn't here… Had Harry decided he wasn't worth saving? He determinedly pushed the thought away and, not for the first time, began to stroke the cool mental of the bonding ring Harry had given him. He wouldn't let old doubts destroy him; he and Harry had faced tough times and have proven their love. They had been tested against family, friends… Against the whole wizarding world. But they had shone through. Harry wouldn't abandon him now.

The next shiver that ran through Draco left an even colder desperation in his chest. What if Harry had received the letter and had met his captors as they desired? What if he had walked straight into a trap? What if he had been taken too? After all, if it were Death Eaters they were dealing with, it would be Harry they really wanted. It was why Harry had been so against so many of his relationships; ever the martyr, he had never wanted to put another person in the risk of danger for his own happiness. Naturally, they hadn't let Draco go, because for them he was the perfect side prize. A traitor to the Dark Lord – and, in their eyes, even worse – he was a traitor who had fallen straight in with the enemy.

"Harry?" Draco yelled, although scalding himself for the idiocy. He knew that if Harry had been taken they would have kept them apart. Even if their cells were physically close, they'd be separated by countless silencing and captivity charms. Yet the logical working of his mind only pushed his heart to yell louder, more desperately. "Harry? HARRY?" He could feel his throat growing hoarse; yes, the water had sustained him and given him the fluid his body desperately needed, but it had given him nowhere near enough strength to descend into such theatrics. Nevertheless he pushed on, his heart overruling his head, calling desperately for his lover.

He opened his cracked, aching lips to call once again when the door swung open, a low, spine-tingling chuckle emerging from the door way.

"Shouting will do you no good, you're quite far enough away that no one will hear you." His captor assured him as he loomed in the doorway, once again bringing nothing but darkness behind him. "As it happens, I'll be seeing him very soon. I'll be sure to pass on your message." The sneer, the mocking, was clear in his captor's voice. It made Draco bristle with anger, although he knew better than to fight back. The figure stood, staring down at Draco for moments that lasted lengths the blonde could only speculate. Finally, he placed his hand into the pocket of his robe. Draco instantly froze, awaiting the spell, the curse, the torture, whatever it was his captors wand would deliver…

When a lump of stale bread landed on the floor, smacking against the dirty, damp floor with a thud.

"Can't have you dying on me before I've killed you myself, can we?" The voice asked, the sneer as smooth as silk and as sickening as poison. Draco held himself, staring definitely ahead into the darkness, waiting until the door slammed closed.

Although he hated himself for the need with which he leapt forward to claim the food from the ground, he allowed himself, at the very least, that he hadn't done so until he was alone.

-oo—

As Harry's feet smacked against the hard, heavy mud of the ground below him and pulled out of the apparition, the first thing he became aware of was the cold. The wind whipped around him, whistling with its ferocity. He pulled his cloak tight around him, his Auror training instinctively coming in as he moved seamlessly from his apparition landing to a stance which positioned him ready to defend against an attack at any angle. He looked up to see that – as Draco's captors probably wanted – the dark of the night concealed any number who could be hiding. He trained his eyes over the scene, squinting to try to make out anything he could but it was no use; he could only see a few inches in front of his face. His wand, which had remained firmly in his hand since the moment he apparated, drew up and with a non-verbal _lumos_ , Harry had light. He began to inch forward, knowing that Ron would have already begun to stalk out the area around them. He had only taken a few steps forward when two columns of flame flared into life.

The lines of fire illuminated those who stood between them; Harry glanced his gaze over them, quick and calculating. His first thought was, of course, of Draco. A single glance told Harry that no one of his shape or size was within their ranks, that none of those standing before him held a prisoner. His second glance estimated number; there were maybe 8 – no more than 10 - wizards standing before him. All wizards, Harry easily deduced, because they were all of an extremely similar build; very tall and, whilst not muscular, broad in the shoulders. Each stood completely cloaked in black. Their bodies were all clad in the same midnight robes, each face hidden by a plain, shapeless mask of black. A third glance confirmed Harry's original estimate; twelve stood before him, definitely all wizards. He had learnt, during his time as an Auror, to make observations about a scene within the first few seconds from which he entered it. Therefore he had easily counted the number standing before him before the front most figure spoke.

"Very punctual, Mr Potter. Whatever hopes you may have had to ambush us by arriving early have, I'm afraid, failed." The voice rang out into the freezing night air, the voice so heavily and clearly distorted by voice charms that Harry had to concentrate hard on each word spoken to have a hope of understanding what the voice said at all. He chose not to respond, setting his jaw in a hard, determined manner. He would not dignify these men with small talk.

"I imagined you to be much more of a talker." The voice mused, unwavering from the spot in which its speaker stood. "Perhaps it is best we complete our business in few words."

"I have no _business_ with you. I'm here for Draco." Harry snarled; in the field he knew better than to respond to criminals in such a way, but his emotions bubbled deep and hot under his skin, hissing with the need to attack. These people had his lover; he could not allow rational thought to control him. He didn't take the main focus of his gaze from the wizard who addressed him, but allowed the outer limits of his vision to take count of the figures beside him again. Not one had moved; all eleven of the others stood, as perfectly still as statues, unspeaking and unwavering. The number told Harry that it must be one of the new, rising groups of Dark Wizards who had sprung up over the years, trying to take Voldemort's place. Personally, Harry didn't believe that any of the groups had the raw power, the magical knowledge, the abilities – however dark – that Tom Riddle had possessed. They would never make a match to him.

Although, Harry knew, _that_ was precisely what made them more dangerous.

Determined not to let his thoughts unsettle him, Harry returned all of his attention to the first wizard.

"Where is he?" Harry demanded, boring his eyes straight ahead, dark and unblinking.

"Where is not your concern. Why, should be your concern." The voice told him, making Harry bristle with an annoyance he couldn't hold back.

"The _why_ is obvious. It's the same time every one of you pathetic, miserable –" Harry knew insults weren't the way to negotiate, and he knew that if this were the field he'd be facing a dressing down from Kingsley when he arrived back at the Ministry. But this wasn't the field, this wasn't Kingsley's mission and the Ministry didn't know. "- _things_ tries something like this. It's me you want. Me or my galleons."

"But as you read in my letter; we are different, we have succeed where others have failed." The voice repeated the words of the letter with a chill which made Harry fight back a shiver. "We are not just different in our success; we are different in our desires."

"Well what do you want?" Harry demanded. He was unnerved by the calm, completely composed tone of the speaker's voice. It wasn't delirious, crazed with the success it was claiming. It wasn't making foolish mistakes, betraying vital information, safe in the belief that they had already won. They weren't making rash, mad demands on the back of the ground they had already gained. That, Harry thought with a swallow deep in his throat, was what unsettled him most of all. Most dark wizards the Auror's caught reached a point where they came to believe their power was indestructible and, more often than not, the careless mistakes they would begin to make would betray them and lead them straight into the Auror's awaiting binds.

This voice, however, wasn't so stupid.

"I believe what we desire will become…." The voice paused and, although he couldn't see it, Harry could hear the smirk that laced the next word "… apparent in good time."

Before Harry could demand what the voice meant – what was 'good time'? What would become apparent? How… would they send another letter? Ask to meet again? – its owner disappeared. It disappeared in complete and utter unison with every other figure on the field. The sounds of their disapparation cracked through the air as a single, harsh sound as each body disappeared as seamlessly as if they had synchronised their exits by magic. Without even knowing if such a thing was possible, Harry took a moment to gape, open mouthed at the empty field before him. Then he took a moment to expel his anger – he allowed himself a lone, solitary roar of raw pain, tearing from his lips in the most primal of screams when he realised how far he was away from seeing Draco again.

When he composed himself to apparate home, Hermione was already pacing his kitchen floor. The sight unnerved Harry – he hadn't seen Hermione display such nerves since their Horcrux hunt. Even when Rose was days away from her due date, even in the depths of labour, she had been nothing more than cool and collected, safely in possession of the facts she'd gained from the entire directory – or at least, the most popular 100 - of birthing manuals from both magical _and_ muggle worlds.

She froze, startled as Harry's crack announced his arrival. "Oh Harry!" She wailed, springing forward as she recognised him. "They were so many of them! I counted twice to be sure, there were seven. The most powerful magical number. Do you think that's a sign to something? They were all the same build too, I mean, the masks and robes hid them but they all seemed the same height, I circled round several times to check… Do you think they were polyjuiced as one person? It's definitely possible if they wanted to go to such lengths to hide themselves…. But why seven? Does that mean anything? And they never actually said what they wanted…" Hermione dove from theory to theory so rapidly that Harry's head swam; he was still smarting from the pain that had hit him when he realised how close – yet still, how far – he had been to Draco. He couldn't pick out the points Hermione was making and, in all honestly, he didn't think she could either. She continued even as Harry's thoughts drifted away, leaping from observations she had made to speculation, yet provided no concrete evidence of _where in Merlin's name Draco was_.

Harry instantly scolded himself for the scorn in his last thought; if he, a fully trained Auror, hadn't picked up on any clues, how could he expect Hermione to have?

This, Harry now understood, was why they never let family or those involved with victims deal directly in cases. Emotions whirled, came to the forefront of your mind however hard you focused, leaving you struggling to piece the facts together.

Harry had almost sank into thoughtless oblivion, blocking out Hermione and dreaming of Draco, when another crack sounded through the kitchen. Hermione froze again, yet instantly relaxed at the sight of her husband.

"It wasn't polyjuice." Ron said simply – Harry guessed that when Ron arrived Hermione must have been rehashing her theory of all seven wizards being polyjuiced to take the same form. His tone was flat and his words were short. His face was set in a hard, concrete expression and his eyes were grim with the news he was about to deliver. From the depths of his robe pocket he pulled a small, cube shaped device that looked completely inconspicuous to Harry.

"It had been glamoured pretty well, hidden right behind them all. I wouldn't have noticed it if I hadn't seen the spark of magic around it when they all disappeared. Most people would have walked away but…" Ron shook his head, staring at the cube in his hands with a deep, furrowed brow of thought "I recognised it, somehow, through the glamour's and removed them."

"What is it?" Hermione asked, stepping closer to Ron to peer at the object in his hand.

"It's a _magnificatiuum_." Ron explained, his face taking on a more ashen expression than Harry had thought possible. "It literally means magnifier. It's a product which magnifies the desires of any witch or wizard who enchants it – all illusion, of course." He hastened to explain as Hermione's mouth opened. She hurriedly closed it again and Ron continued; "clearly our wizard in question – the one who was speaking – wanted to look powerful. The _magnificatiuum_ gave him six exact replicas of himself to make seven… power in numbers, looking as if he has an army, power in the most magical number of seven…. that was how they disappeared so in sync. It wasn't seven wizard; it was one wizard, six exact replica illusions."

"How do you know all this?" Hermione breathed, finally breaking her silence.

"What the _magnificatiuum_ did for this wizard I've worked out for myself from knowing how it works. Recognising the _magnificatiuum_ itself?" His last words were poised as a question and turned his expression from anxious to disgusted. "It's a Weasley's Wizard Wheeze product."


End file.
